


Heaven Locked Up In Her Bones

by PhoenixFalls



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Altered Mental States, F/M, First Time, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 17:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15123896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFalls/pseuds/PhoenixFalls
Summary: Normally when he finished a session in the tank, the world clamored for Sherlock's attention, colors more brilliant, sounds sharper, scents more intense. Tonight his whole world was Joan.





	Heaven Locked Up In Her Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Written in less than 24 hours as a part of the "Come at Once" challenge, for the prompt "heartbeat."

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

In the black and the silence of the float tank, Sherlock’s awareness inevitably turned inward. Some sessions, he performed recall exercises, or went over the details of his cold cases. Others, less frequently as time wore on, he slipped into a deep, restful sleep.

This session, he felt more grounded in his body than usual, and became fascinated by the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. At first, he simply listened to it, the only sound in his soundless world, regular as a metronome.

Its regularity began to grate, and he set out to vary it. The tank was too narrow to move much in -- and was supposed to be restful besides -- so he began to pant, bringing himself to the verge of hyperventilation to hear that metronome begin to race and grow ragged. Then he slowed it way down, dragging in long, deep breaths, expanding and contracting his lungs to their absolute limit.

He may have giggled, but there was no one to witness it, so he would deny it ever happened.

A new sensation pulled at his attention after some time; another heartbeat, just a split-second behind the one in his ears. But he wasn’t listening to this one. He followed the thread of sensation down, curious; eventually the answer came to him, a very simple mystery in the end.

He was erect, furiously so, and he was feeling his heartbeat throb in that erection, untouched by anything but the barely perceptible lap of the water across his skin.

A tap at the lid of the tank indicated that Sherlock’s session was over, and then Joan was there, her face a painfully beautiful overload to his suddenly activated eyes, even in the dim light of the study. Sherlock blinked, and watched as Joan blinked back. She opened her mouth to say something, then shut it firmly, lips turning up at the corners in a suppressed smile.

It occurred to Sherlock that this was not their usual decanting procedure, if for no other reason than that they must have been staring at each other for over a minute by this point. He followed the path of Joan’s eyes, which had strayed away from his face and settled somewhat further south.

“Oh.”

Joan giggled, and Sherlock most definitely witnessed it.

“Would you like me to give you a little more time to take care of that?”

Joan liked to call Sherlock shameless. He wasn’t, entirely; he just liked to wield other peoples’ shame against them. Still, this was further than he ever would have been comfortable pushing Joan’s boundaries, and were he entirely in his right mind, he would have leapt up to cover himself by now.

But he wasn’t entirely in his right mind, and so he found himself instead spilling out a far too truthful response.

“I would rather you took care of it.”

Joan blinked again, and for a moment concern flashed across her face. Her eyes skittered across him, taking stock of his condition like a doctor, like a sober companion. But she had been cracking the seal on the tank for him for months now, and knew it sometimes took him like this. 

Her expression grew thoughtful, and he thought--

_She's actually considering it._

His heartbeat kicked up in his ears again, thudded even more strongly in his groin.

She nodded once, decision made, then reached in to pull him to his feet.

Sherlock padded through the brownstone in Joan's wake, oddly quiescient. He felt a distant curiosity, a wondering at what decision Joan had made; he suspected their still-linked hands were a good sign.

Normally when he finished a session in the tank, the world clamored for Sherlock's attention, colors more brilliant, sounds sharper, scents more intense. Tonight his whole world was Joan. The firm press of her warm hand in his; the delicate shift of the fine bones in that hand as their clasp twisted around a corner. The tendril of tea and lemon that drifted in her wake; the way her hair caught the light of the lamp like onyx; the barely audible huff of fond exasperation when she dropped his hand and Sherlock just stopped without her momentum to propel him.

"All right then."

In a move Sherlock should have seen coming (but didn't), Joan toppled Sherlock onto her bed.

It was coming up on laundry day, and the sheets smelled so like Joan that Sherlock had to roll over to bury his nose in them. They felt deliciously cool on his skin, and he writhed a little, experimentally. Then he writhed again, then thrust, seeking the friction of cotton against his erection.

Joan giggled again from somewhere behind him, and Sherlock had to roll back over to see.

"I thought you wanted my help with that?"

"Please." It came out cracked and over-earnest, and Joan smiled, pleased and bashful. Then she pulled her t-shirt over her head, and Sherlock noticed that she was naked.

He struggled to push himself up and reach for her at the same time, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated. She smiled again, and then she was in his arms, and she was kissing him.

He couldn't breathe. He never wanted to breathe again.

He had to touch, so he brought one hand up carefully to rest at Joan's waist, and the other he lifted higher to cradle her skull. But his fingers were clumsy still, and they tangled in her hair, pulling her head back for a moment.

She had that light in her eyes, the one that Sherlock knew meant she was doing something reckless, and she was bracing herself to regret it.

He tried to stroke her hair reassuringly. There was no risk for her here; Sherlock would be whatever she needed, friend or lover, one-night-stand or happily-ever-after. But his tongue was clumsier than his fingers were, and he could never find the words to tell her that.

So he kissed her again, and again, committing every press of her flesh to his to his memory. He breathed her in, wanted to swallow her down, make her very cells his.

At some point she grabbed a condom and sank down on top of him, stealing his breath again. From there, everything was over far more quickly than Sherlock would have liked; but Joan had seen him in far more embarrassing positions than this one, so he didn’t even try to fight, tumbled down into his orgasm precipitously and just lay for several minutes afterward, dazed.

The world had lost the sharp-edged clarity of those post-tank moments; but Joan was still somehow burnished. Sherlock wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her down to his chest, the bare inches between them still too many by far. He closed his eyes, and when he felt Joan open her mouth to speak, he shushed her. After a time, in the quiet, he felt it -- Joan’s heartbeat, racing so close to his, thin skin and bone all that separated them. He began to breathe in time with her, trying to bring them into sync.

**Author's Note:**

> Title adapted from the Johnnyswim song "Heartbeats."


End file.
